show me where my armour ends (show me where my skin begins)
by Mia-Zeklos
Summary: Instead of taking the black, Jon joins the Kingsguard. When his father is executed for treason and Arya disappears from King's Landing, Sansa and Jon are the only ones left behind and, in an effort to keep the North in line, Sansa is married to Joffrey at the first possible opportunity. From then on, everything changes. (Canon-divergent, canon-typical warnings apply.)
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: Hello all! This is an entirely new project (based on an idea outlined by another author, with whom I connected through an initiative on tumblr - hence my reluctance to give exact coordinates to them on a website we haven't connected on) and**** this serves more as a prequel than a real chapter, so it's shorter than the rest of them will be.**

**The basic things I've changed - Jon is in the Kingsguard instead of the Night's Watch, Jaime is still around (mainly for the way I want him to interact with Jon, really), Sansa and Joffrey are married at around the point where season one ended, and they're both aged up to 20. It doesn't really affect anyone else's ages and/or implies anything more - I just didn't feel comfortable writing them as young as they were in canon in such a scenario. Title taken from Sleeping At Last's _Pluto_.**

**I hope you enjoy it and feedback is always welcome!**

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The King had died on the day Jon had been sworn into service. If he were a superstitious man – and he is, somewhat, as Northmen tend to be – he would have perhaps trusted his instincts enough to realise that the rest of the lifetime he had promised away to the crown wouldn't be the easiest in history.

What had followed had been a whirlwind of accusations and anger and death, all of it happening so quickly that he'd hardly had the time to process any of it. As a result, he had given up on trying to do so and had instead resorted to reminding himself of what he knew for certain when he woke up each morning.

One: his father is dead at Joffrey Baratheon's command. Two: Arya is gone and not likely to be found soon. All for the best, he supposes. Three: the rest of his family would have gone into outright war already and taken it all the way to King's Landing if it hadn't been for his sisters and the fact that to their knowledge, they are both still trapped in the Red Keep.

Four: his sister is going to be wed to the newly crowned prince this morning.

The part of it that stings the most, Jon thinks – past the grief and shock and pain and betrayal – is that he'd failed. It's precisely this that his father had tried to avoid when he had convinced him to don a white cloak instead of a black one and when he'd convinced King Robert to take him into his Kingsguard in the first place – he had been meant to _protect_ her. As happy as Sansa had looked to be betrothed to Joffrey, Lord Stark had never fully let go of his suspicions towards the prince's family enough to leave his firstborn daughter alone in their hands. When he had finally been proven right, he had paid for it with his life shortly after the King had left this world as well, Arya had disappeared, Joffrey had been crowned and the proceedings around the wedding had become even more rushed as the Lannisters had scrambled to chain their final remaining Stark to themselves before Robb could attack. They've yet to see whether it would work or not, but then again, their new king is yet to take her as his wife.

He had failed. He'd failed his father and all his warnings, he had failed Robb and Arya and the rest of his siblings and, worst of all, he had failed _her_. Sansa had never seen him as her protector before – had never thought she would need protection from her husband-to-be to begin with – but she had been left with no one else now, and he had failed her. It's a terrible thought, born out of a responsibility he had never thought he would be given, and it's all Jon can do to stay within the confines of his room lest he do something that would plunge them even deeper into loss and suffering than what they had already been served. It's a self-imposed imprisonment and, as such, it's not bound to last.

The knock on the door is sudden and harsh enough for him to know that it's one of _them_ and Jon gets to his feet, the feeble attempt to make himself presentable not entirely successful if his quick glance in the mirror is anything to go by. His hair is still a chaotic tangle from when he had woken up at sunrise and his eyes are bloodshot from the lack of sleep, but it shouldn't matter too much – chances are, their newly appointed Lord Commander is the one coming to visit. The fact that Lord Tyrion would have already greeted him from the other side of the door and the Queen's unfortunate habit of announcing herself by barging into any place she'd taken fancy to with no prior warning don't leave him with many options and, sure enough, Jaime Lannister's voice floats into the room a moment later.

"Snow?" More knocking, lacking even the scarce patience from before. "Snow? Are you ready? You're needed."

"What for?" When he opens the door, more forceful than what is acceptable given his place in the hierarchy, the sight of the man's bored expression serves to infuriate him even further. "I'm not on duty today, you said."

"No, but in the absence of her father, I thought you might want to walk your sister to the King." He does look somewhat uncomfortable now, but what little it does to quell Jon's anger is undone the moment he opens his mouth again, as per usual. "She would appreciate it, I assume, given her circumstances. And if it's not you, it's going to be me. And if it is me, you're going to regret leaving her on her own at a time like this."

_What would you know about giving your own blood away to a stranger who's half a beast already_, he wants to ask, but of course he knows. He had doubtlessly been in the sept when his sister had been wed to King Robert, had watched Lord Tywin tug her by the arm until she had followed, but this is _different_. If it's sympathy Lannister wants to show him, then it feels more like mockery than anything else they have done so far.

Before he can think of something to say, the man pushes him back into the room, decisive if not rough. "Get dressed. She's waiting for you."

It's as much of a warning as he's going to get and Jon grasps it with both hands, gratefully slamming the door shut once his Lord Commander retreats. There's no peace to be found in his life, not ever since the day he had rode into King's Landing, but solitude is a close second and really, in the weeks after their arrival, refusing what he's been handed had quickly ceased to be an option.

~.~

When he finds his sister – hidden away in a room just outside the hall, eyes focused sightlessly on the opposite wall only for her to get to her feet the moment he enters – she's nearly bright enough to blind him, with the sight they'd made of her. Sansa is drowning in gold, from the elaborate shape that her hair is twisted into, held in place by a thousand pins, to the gown she's wearing – a heavy, creamy thing made out of far too much fabric, with a lion's head sewn into the back. It's there on the front as well, in the necklace that her betrothed had given her just weeks ago, just like the one the Queen wears, and Jon's heart stutters painfully in his chest. She had been ecstatic when she'd received the gift, just as she had been about the wedding, incorporating bits and pieces of the royal family into herself as time progressed. Now that the Lannisters had shown their true colours, they'd showered her in the ones of their house until they'd managed to scrub away any bit of the North out of her. It's the Stark name they want for their alliance, but not House Stark, and he had been a fool to not see it for what it is before.

But then again, he's not the only one – they had all been fools, it seems.

"I'm to present you to the King," he says at last, voice thick with everything he needs to hold back; everything the guard doubtlessly waiting for them on the other side of the door can't be allowed to hear. "Ser Jaime thought it might be fitting."

There's a little hope blossoming in the next bleak look Sansa casts him and as much as he wouldn't like to offer her an escape he won't be able to follow through with, it's impossible not to smile in response. He can't make a particularly encouraging sight, Jon supposes – his Kingsguard armour is the only clothing ceremonial enough for a royal wedding and it's yet more salt in the wound. _I'm covered in gold, too_. He's never been a Stark, but his father had deemed him a Stark enough to be Sansa's home now that she has none, and King's Landing had tried to take that away too. _What a picture we make_. He offers her a hand all the same, but Sansa shakes her head, the despair from before flooding back in.

"I can't." Her eyes are altogether too glassy and there's so little separating her from bursting into tears that Jon isn't sure he'd be able to stop it. He had only seen it once before – back in front of the Sept of Baelor in that terrible morning when Father had died – and it's not something he ever wants to experience again. "I can't, if Cersei sees— If she sees me cry, she'd kill me. If I embarrass her in front of everyone in there—"

"You won't." He dares to try and get closer again and this time, Sansa allows it; sinks gratefully into his arms as he wraps them around her back. It would certainly be better for them all if this wedding would somehow refrain from turning into a spectacle, but there isn't much that can be done about it now. If the Lannisters had wanted her to be an exemplary bride, they should have given her to someone other than a monster. "You know how to do this. You've always known. And it won't be forever."

Even Sansa manages a doubtful scoff at the reassurance. It must feel so empty from where she's standing; as useless as his supposed protection had been so far_. No one can protect anyone_, she had told him shortly after the execution, when he had sworn to her that he would. It had held true so far in too many ways to count – Arya's absence alone is enough of a proof.

"Every unhappy wife in the history of the world has said that, hasn't she?"

"And half of them have murdered their husbands while they slept." She smiles at _that_, the expression half-hidden when he cups her cheek. "If Robb marches south—"

"He mustn't. All it will do—" She's still terrified, her hands where they're braced on his shoulders fidgeting as she clings to him, but she's steadier now, her mind as clear as it always is, scrambling to figure out everyone's next move five steps ahead. "It doesn't matter now." His sister straightens up, carefully disentangling herself from his arms as she squares her shoulders. "We can't stay here forever. Come."

It's her that leads him to the door, then, braver than she had been just yesterday; more determined than Jon had ever seen her. She's always been collected regardless of the challenge she'd been presented with, but she's never faced anything quite like this before. It's impossible to tell how long the boldness will last and he hooks his arm around his sister's, eyes still carefully fixed on her face. She's not going to cry – she's got control over that much – but it's the prospect of her holding it all back instead that frightens him more. He can do nothing but follow as they leave the room and the front doors swing open in front of them instead, hundreds of eyes fixing on their silhouettes in the morning sunlight as they make their tentative first steps down the stairs.

Jon can see it all, as if he's standing on the rooftop and looking into this particular piece of his life – the King is waiting on the dais on the other end of the Throne room, surrounded by his guards and family from all sides, the High Septon looks on, still clearly irritated about being made to perform the ceremony in the Red Keep instead of the Sept of Baelor. It's a symbolic gesture meant to highlight the new king's supposed birthright, Jon knows, but it's still a small mercy – the Throne room is smaller, at least, and that makes their ceremonial walk to Sansa's future husband a little shorter than it would have been otherwise.

It's only when they reach him that he feels part of his own body once more. He lets go of her, gives his best smile – hollow and braver than he feels, as a Kingsguard's encouragement tends to be – and steps away to take his place next to his new brothers and the royal family. Here, at least, they stand out – he feels like a dark, curly-haired stain in the midst of Lannister gold and Sansa's fiery red shines like a torch on the sunlight when she turns her back to him and the crimson cloak of the king's protection is wrapped around her shoulders. It's a small comfort, knowing that they don't belong entirely, but Jon is ready to take what he can get.

Sansa meets his eyes again as soon the ribbon is wrapped around her and Joffrey's hands and the septon condemns their souls to an eternal union, and only meets her husband's gaze when he announces his intentions to the realm. It's grandiose enough to nearly make Jon laugh, though he knows better than to sour the entire affair even further. There's a lot pledged into that kiss, if he has to guess, and none of it is love, but it's too late to fret over such things now – all notions of peace and life and a new family had crumbled along with their father's body in front of the citizens of King's Landing.

_It's a Stark cloak she must wear_, Jon can't help but think – the silvery lines of her house's direwolf had always suited her much better than the red, heavy Lannister velvet and the golden roaring beast woven into it. _It's the only protection she'll ever have_.

But she doesn't; not anymore. What she has is him and as Jon stares down resolutely, one fist clenched around the fine fabric of his own white cloak, the edges of it blur enough to almost shape a silver of their own.


	2. Chapter 2

Among the whirlwind of emotions still warring for attention in her mind weeks after everything in her life had fallen apart, the one Sansa had never seen coming had been resentment.

It's horrible, she knows, and more than a little unfair, but it's the only thing on her mind when her farce of a bedding ceremony is over and she's pushed into her new chambers unceremoniously by the men – unbearably loud and already beyond drunk – who had almost torn at her bridal gown just moments prior. No one had ever prepared her for this. She had always known she would _have_ one, had hoped that her new husband would laugh as much as Joffrey currently is and she'd looked forward to it when she had imagined her own excitement at the prospect. His joy should have been hers as well. Her septa, her mother and every other married woman who had ever decided to give her advice had told her all about it, her father had talked about the gentle, kind husband he would one day find her in the rare occasions she had approached him about the matter, but no one had ever warned her that when the time came, she would have no choice but to obey whatever circumstances she had been handed.

It _is_ unfair. No one had meant for any of this to _happen_, certainly not her parents, but the thought still pesters her. _They could have warned me that I could end up here_.

No one had ever thought it possible, she supposes – a woman of her standing ending up as a prisoner of war in what had been a relatively peaceful realm would have been unthinkable a mere year ago.

"Well, go on, then." Once he closes the door behind his back and turns the key, Joffrey stalks towards her. He sounds bored, at least, and it's some comfort to think that perhaps he'll be finished with her quickly. He had never seemed as interested in consummating this marriage as he is in frightening her every chance he gets until she's on the verge of tears again. Perhaps it'll be easy enough to do what the Queen had appeared to settle for – she could avoid him whenever possible, only sharing his presence in his court when custom demanded it, or his bed when _he_ demanded an heir.

She's a queen too, now. If indifference or cruelty are the options she's offered, then she'll make do for the time being.

"Your Grace?"

"Take your clothes off," he clarifies, the annoyance shining through every word as he gestures to what little she still has to cover herself up with. Her hesitation does nothing to make it lessen. "_Now_, or I'll call your bastard brother in to do it for you. He didn't seem to be enjoying the wedding too much; that should give him something to remember."

The image alone fills her with both terror and a strange, naive sort of hope, the kind she had thought she'd left behind all the way back in Winterfell. _Jon_. Jon would have kept her safe; would have watched over her lest something went wrong. Perhaps it had been a mercy to him, relieving him of his duties for the day so that he could be there for her when she'd been wed, but it had left her so alone once they'd left the feast. _There isn't a single person in the world who could keep me safe now_.

And there it is again – resentment and anger, sharp enough for her to nearly choke on them as she nods and gets to work on what remains of her smallclothes under her husband's watchful eye. He appears just as disinterested now as he had been ever since the day of her father's death and it's almost worse than his usual cruelty; the realisation that he had managed to fool her so thoroughly. It's humiliating, in a way nakedness could never be, and Sansa avoids his gaze as she inches towards the bed and sits on the edge, eyes still locked on Joffrey's.

"My uncle Tyrion thought it useful to send me two of his whores before the wedding. So I would do better by you, he said. It was interesting to watch." He pushes her back once he climbs next to her over the covers and his touch is as cold as the calculating glint in his eyes; distant and curious in the way he tends to be when he sees an animal's open carcass. "Have you noticed? How people squirm when they're in pain but trying to pretend they aren't? It's such a thin line; pain and pleasure."

He actually seems to wait for a response and Sansa shakes her head as she watches him, too desperate for distraction to try and keep up with his recollection of whatever torture he had recently inflicted. He's as pale and thin as she'd expected, once he undresses; tall and somewhat fragile. Relatively easy to overpower, surely, had she not felt quite so fragile herself. _Perhaps I should have let him call for Jon, after all. He could have slit his throat ten times by now._

But Jon isn't here, and neither is Robb, or Father, or any of the people who had ever sworn to keep her from harm. None of them had ever considered that she might have to fend for herself and it had left her so entirely defenceless; so blind to any kind of salvation she might have otherwise found. It's suffocating and terrifying and her body has become weightless enough for Sansa to feel as if she just might fly away unless her husband holds her down.

And hold her down he does, just a moment later, when she takes a little too long to answer. "No, Your Grace," she manages at last, voice trembling as much as her body has started to. "I haven't had the opportunity to see such a thing first hand, I'm afraid."

"You can if you wish to." He nudges her a little further towards the pillows, drags his lips down her neck in a mockery of a caress. It hurts. She'll know worse wounds by the time the night is over, Sansa knows, but for now, this pains her more than anything else; the way every touch is a carefully measured attempt to inflict further damage on both her body and what is left of her heart. "You will if I decide that you should. My mother says that it's best to stay away from whores – a king's bastards existing at all only breeds conflict. I agree. There are more ways to show you. If it makes you squeal like you did the day your father got his head cut off, it might even be worth the trouble."

"I'm sure it's fascinating, Your Grace." He had never known true pleasure or true pain, she suspects, and it must be a relief for someone like him to observe the world from the outside and relish in the chaos bleeding through the cracks. Though he'd clearly meant to upset her, it's impossible to determine whether the offer is genuine; whether he wants a bride to fit his own mind or someone to keep under careful control through the constant threat of violence. His hands on her body are yet another distraction, as unwelcome as it is expected and definitely preferable to his efforts to drag her focus back to the conversation. How difficult could it possibly be to get a wedding night over with quickly? If he's as indifferent as he appears to be, there should be no reason to draw this out, other than torturing her further. He'd divested himself from all his clothing by now and she's expected to bring his child into the world as soon as possible; if anything, he should be _eager_.

But that's _it_, she realises soon enough, as Joffrey refuses to move on from the wet kisses on the side of her throat, slowly crawling up to her jawline while his arms keep her trapped in place. It's about watching her squirm and play the dutiful bride even when it's just pretence. It's subjugation he wants, not pleasure; her efforts and discomfort, not devotion. The sooner she complies, the sooner he'll be satisfied, and surely even he couldn't be bothered to torment someone forever if they give in so easily. It would be _boring_ and there are few things he hates more than that. In the short time Sansa had known him, she had seen him far more irritated by the mundane and tedious than he had ever been by any direct threat to his person. He's irritated by her frequently enough as it is, and if this is what it takes for him to set her aside, it's not an opportunity she wants to miss. Staying quiet and letting the rest simmer until the moment to strike comes can keep you safe; if she's learnt anything from his thrice-cursed family, it's this.

Reaching out makes every part of her body fight against the gesture, but she persists, fighting to keep her hand steady as she lets it slide up her husband's cheek to turn him away from her body and towards her face. It's not enough to make the ice in his eyes melt away, but it draws enough of his attention to feel like a dare. It's easy to pretend, she reminds herself as Joffrey grabs her by the shoulders and pushes her towards the bed frame, following until they're pressed against each other and she's left there, in a trap of her own making. A part of her had always known, she supposes, that she might need to, one day, and if he bores of it quickly enough, she might just be able to keep it up long enough to survive this.

With nowhere else left to turn to but to him, Sansa finally closes her eyes.

~.~

The insistent, if still polite, knocking on the door is what wakes her. It must still be early – the light piercing through her eyelids once Sansa turns on her other side still bears the rosy tint of sunrise and the air is chilly for King's Landing weather through the day this time of the year – but she drags herself up to a sitting position all the same, giving it only a moment's thought before calling out to the newcomer to enter. The effort alone makes her wince. Her throat feels as sore as the rest of her body, though it had been nowhere near as abused the night before as the rest of her has been. The prince – _king, now_ – is nowhere to be seen and it's a small mercy; even more so when one of her handmaidens rushed into the room with a thinly veiled curiosity in her expression and an armful of thin, red fabric.

"What is it?" Wrapped up in the covers of the bed, Sansa feels altogether too vulnerable to be in anyone's presence. If she moves an inch in any direction, the girl might _see_ her – the exhaustion, the frustrating uncooperativeness of her body, the inevitable signs of her marriage's consummation – and the thought is more terrifying than she's willing to admit._ It should have not been like this_, a voice reminds her; the same voice she'd made sure to keep as quiet as possible, lest it reminds her of long lost hopes and dreams. She should have been cheerful if suitably flustered; a woman too polite to be smug but too happy to hide it. It's cold, unearned shame that crawls its way up her body instead, her husband's way of making her feel inadequate even without being in his presence, and there is little she can do but drown in it when there's nothing to stop it from turning worse and worse with every passing moment.

There isn't much to be seen, other than the bruises, but it's enough to make her feel sick. Joffrey had been too forceful for it not to stick to her, more out of his need to satisfy the curiosity he'd admitted to feeling for his uncle's gift than desire, as if he had been interested in drawing an array of reactions out of her instead of doing his duty to the realm as he had doubtlessly been instructed a thousand times. _Look_, he had said, already at the cusp of dawn, _I've made you bleed_. His half-smile had shone in the scarce light that the candles had thrown over them as he'd gripped the stained sheets in one hand and Sansa had gathered the strength to feel a twinge of hollow satisfaction at his misunderstanding. There had been blood, to be sure, but far too much of it for it to be the result of him taking her maidenhead and the ache low in her belly had been testament enough for another small victory – _if I ever give you any heirs, it won't be tonight. If I bleed, I can do it on my own_.

It feels all the emptier in daylight, but it's all she has. Sansa has no intention of giving it up.

"I have drawn you a bath already, My L— Your Grace. You are needed in the Throne Room at your earliest convenience. The Queen Mother sends you this." She had dropped the garment on one of the daybeds and, despite herself, Sansa slips out from under the sheets to inspect it, carefully keeping the fabric wrapped around her body. It bears only a vague resemblance to the style of dress she had been used to ever since coming to the capital – it's heavier, made of a sturdier material, with a collar high enough to cover her neck and large, decorated sleeves. It's a thing of beauty, truly. A fortnight ago, she would have been grateful; now, it only serves to anger her more.

"I can dress myself."

"Her Grace insisted." The girl's hands shift restlessly by her sides at the sight of her fury, misdirected as it is, and she spreads the gown out further in front of her until Sansa can see the full picture. It's too heavy, too elaborate for it to be anything but a deliberate choice and she understands, now – it's meant to cover all of her, from neck to toe, in the event that she would prefer to hide as much of herself as she can. It's the worst kind of gift she has ever received – the Queen had _known_, gods damn her, she had known and she had done _nothing_—

"If you prefer, I could find another, Your Grace."

—and the choice has already been made for her, really. If Sansa had had the chance to prevent any of this from happening, she had lost it a long time ago.

"No," she manages. It's such a short, simple word and she's never heard her voice sound as defeated before as it does now. She never wants to hear it again, but it's another choice she'd had taken away; the opportunity to be silent if she so decides. "No, that won't be necessary. The King is waiting, after all."


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing ever happens in the Red Keep.

Jon can imagine the appeal that it must have from the outside – behind closed doors is where the royal family breeds the sort of conflict that tears the realm apart every other decade or so, where they hide all their secrets and gold; it's where life is so drastically different that it must frustrate the smallfolk on a daily basis. But here, behind the high walls, it's uneventful enough that it nearly drives him to tears when his assignment is anything but the family his sister had married into.

It's the thought of Sansa that keeps him on edge tonight, in fact. For all his other faults, his Lord Commander is merciful enough to keep him close to her for the most part. It's easier through the days, given that all he needs to do is guard the door, and less so during the nights, but he's here all the same, eye darting up and down the corridor more out of habit than genuine worry. Even on the brink of war, the Red Keep is the safest place in Westeros where threats from the outside world are concerned. From the inside out, however—

"Jon?"

He snaps out of his musings at the voice coming from behind him, Sansa's call echoing through the hallway like a chant, a summon he responds to without hesitation.

"It's me." His armour makes far too much noise for him to rush towards her and that leaves him with his observations as she nears him instead. The capital is so much warmer than Winterfell than even the nights in autumn don't feel too unforgiving, but the sight of the paper-thin cloak she'd wrapped around her shoulders makes him wish he could hand her his own as well. "Are you all right?"

"I need to speak to you." Before he's had the chance to nod for her to continue, she grips him by the gloved wrist. "_Inside_."

On any other night, it would have been madness. Joffrey rarely lets her spend her nights in her own chambers and when he does, it's not for long, but Jon's yet to see him tonight. The Small council had gathered at around noon and the King had been surprisingly interested in attending it for its entirety for once. Sansa had begged off quite early, from what he'd heard. _She must have waited for me_. The thought makes him strangely giddy and Jon straightens up in effort to steel himself for whatever is to come.

By the time Sansa locks the door behind his back, her expression has shifted from the careful neutrality that she tends to wear for everyone else to something between anxiety and a collected sort of despair.

"Robb has decided to stand down," she says, still hushed. "He's going back north. H hasn't come to bend the knee personally, but they all already know that he won't. This is as good as it get."

"For now." Jon lingers near the door for a moment and then wraps his arms around her to bring her close. It's not quite comfort, but the helplessness is just acute enough for him to know that she needs the contact, if only for a moment. It's become one of their easiest methods of communication recently. "What else?"

"Nothing. Nothing is going to change _here_, as far as I understand it. I didn't stay long enough to make sure." The disgust written all over her face is descriptive enough for him to refrain from asking for elaboration. Sansa doesn't step away; instead, her arms around him tighten, the pendant around her neck clanging against his breastplate. It would have been much easier to do this before – before King's Landing, before the King's visit to Winterfell, even, when they'd been mainly a passing, fond presence in each other's lives; when any warmth he'd had to give hadn't been stripped away behind the gold imposed on him. "I never thought he could have got us out of here. It's better to know he won't die trying. But—"

"I'm here," Jon reminds her, rather urgent now. He knows, of course – as much she fears for her brother, it must have been a relief to cling to a sliver of hope while it had still been there. "It's for the best; you're both safer that way. As for the King—" He falters, already aware of the argument she would make. _They would never let us go_. It's true, of course, but that doesn't make it unsolvable. "I could handle him for you."

"No." When she looks up, her face shines in the half-light of the room, silver streaks racing down her cheeks until he realises that the heaviness in her voice is nothing more than tears. "No, don't say that. I can't lose you too, Jon, not after Father. Do what you're told, or you'll suffer for it."

"_Sansa_." He's terrified to ask, truth be told, but hiding from the truth hadn't done any of them any good so far. "Has he hurt you?" It occurs to him, just an instant later, how ridiculous that must sound. "Has he done anything—"

She wrings herself away as if he'd burnt her. "Don't."

"I need you to tell me." He doesn't dare touch her again until she comes to him – given how little choice she has in _any_ matter, it's the last thing she needs – but it's enough to follow her when she heads for the window. "If you're in pain—"

"Of course I am. Aren't you? Our father is dead, Bran was nearly killed and we still don't know who's responsible, there's been no sign of Arya for _weeks_ and we're both prisoners. No one can guarantee Winterfell's safety, either, with how close things are to falling apart. He could have been the kindest husband in the world and I would have still been in pain." She casts him a look over her shoulder. "He is not. We've been married for three months and he wants— I can't—"

Her voice rises, desperation seeping through, and he can't keep his distance now; wraps a hand around her upper arm until she turns to face him again. Her eyes are wide and terrified, enough to make his heart ache, but she would much prefer it if he would pretend otherwise, he knows. She'd never been too good at admitting defeat, no matter how much of it they share just now. "I know."

He doesn't, not entirely, but it's what she must need to hear; a reassurance that she's not alone, as certain as he can make it. There's not much else that he can offer, now that he'd sworn it all away to the crown. If it hadn't been for her, he might have lost himself beneath the armour and the cloak already. It's a cold enough existence that it's a wonder anything can move him anymore, even if it's only his family.

"You need to rest." It's not easy, sending her away when she'd finally opened up somewhat, but it's better than letting her worries fester further. "You won't do yourself any favours if you don't sleep."

"I _can't_ sleep. I'd just be losing time before I have to go in there once again."

"Not if I keep everyone out." He manages a smile and, feeble as it is, receives one in response. "I'll guard the door."

"You can't guard it from everyone, Jon. When someone calls for me—"

"I'll keep them _all_ out." He gives her shoulder another squeeze and steps away, motioning towards her sleeping quarters as subtly as he can without having her mistake it for condescension. "Good night, Sansa."

It's not quite as comforting as he'd hoped, with how often tenderness evades him, but something in his sister's eyes softens as the sight of it. She nods in agreement and sits on the edge of her bed, still uncertain, before retreating back under the covers. "I'll see you in the morning."

He can't really hope for a better wish – they both know he'll be too busy standing vigil to sleep.

Jon waits until Sansa's lids grow heavy and her breathing evens out and leaves as quietly as he can, finally ready to go back to his duty.

~.~

His sister, Jon has to admit despite the horrors attached to their circumstances, makes for an excellent queen. Far too graceful and patient for the court she'd been brought into, but a queen all the same, with how well she fits into her surroundings. Had her mother been here, she would have been proud. It's not a particularly comfort thought.

It takes her a lot to crack, but the Small council gets her to that point sooner or later despite that. They always do.

It had started out well enough. Jon had tuned out the idle chat as they'd all settled into their places to the best of his ability, observing his charges while they'd gone through the majority of their more trivial troubles without much conflict.

It all falls apart as soon as Lord Tywin decided to seize the word. For the time being, he's the only one unnerving the rest of the nobles involved – the King had spared them his presence in favour of holding court on his own for the very first time. The notion of _that_ must be keeping the rest of them on edge, but blaming Joffrey for his grandfather's actions isn't entirely fair. The man had always relished in his bluntness.

"A celebration would keep people calm, if this is what worries you." His newest target is his oldest son and his concern on the matter of safety, though Jon had missed the cause of it. No matter; he'll be talked through it later, but the prospect makes his blood run cold. _Nothing ever happens in the Red Keep_, he'd always thought during his more uneventful days, but it had always been laced with the desire to find his sister and slip out in the chaos in case something does go wrong. It's a startling thought – now that he sees Santa seated among the rest of them; finds himself glancing at his sworn brothers to see them react to the worst scenes they'd endured in court – the knowledge that to the smallfolk, they're all the same. _If the royal family goes up in flames, so do we_.

"What kind of celebration do you suggest? They just got a wedding and a beheading right before it."

Just as Jon's eyes wander over to Sansa and her suddenly stony expression, Varys clears his throat. "Forgive me, My Lord, but distraction might be necessary _because_ of the beheading in question."

"Whatever the case," Lord Tywin intervenes again before his son has had the chance to elaborate, "this city is going to starve for the better part of this winter if the Tyrells follow through on their threats, or, at the very least, until we find an alternative. Executing a traitor with a ridiculous accusation is much less eventful than you seem to think, and a royal wedding can only warm them for so long, given how desperate it makes us look. Soon enough, they'll want a future to look towards."

Silence descends around the table, but Jon is far too furious to let the discomfort affect him. It might as well be nothing but a spectacle for the masses, his father's death, and he'd strangle them to the last man if he could. He glances at Sansa, eager to tell her that much at least, but finds her eyes darting around the room instead, like an animal finally comprehending the entirety of its trap.

The King's Hand doesn't let her evade the final blow for long.

"Your subjects would expect an heir, My Lady."

**END OF DAY TWENTY-NINE**

Although she had clearly known that this had been coming, Sansa only pales further as the tension around them thickens. "I—"

"The queen is ever mindful of her duty, Father." Cersei Lannister is the one to break the silence, her smile frosty enough to nearly make Jon flinch, one hand splayed over his sister's back in either faux support or outright persuasion. "You needn't remind her of it. Isn't that right, Sansa?"

"Of course, Your Grace." Her affirmation is so muted that it's barely audible. The familiarity, despite the gesture it had doubtlessly been meant as, had only unsettled her further. "The King takes this responsibility to heart as well."

"Good. News of any kind would be welcome." When it looks like his daughter might speak up again, Lord Tywin gestures the rest of the council away as delicately as he ever does. "This is quite enough for today, I would say, My Lords; the King might be needing us already. I would like a word with my family, if you will."

_Half this room, then_. Joffrey had made sure to provide all his kin with seats on the Small council and they'd invented new ones along the way. Lord Tyrion had been named Master of War, the Queen Mother – Master of Laws, in the absence of a more appropriate title. Had any of them had more of an inkling about naval warfare, they would have filled that seat as well, Jon doesn't doubt, and as the few outsiders, the rest of the guards included, slip out, it occurs to him that he might do well to do the same. Barely bothering to offer his customary bow, he trails out after his sister.

"It's not my fault," Sansa blurts out, purposefully slowing down until everyone else leaves them behind. "He makes it sound like this is just me being stubborn, but it's _not_. If Cersei ever suspects the same, she'll—"

"All of them have done much worse." If he's ever had any patience with the Lannisters and their sensibilities, it's long since run out. The thought of Sansa being too intimidated to imagine the outcome makes his blood boil. "If you _had_ done it on purpose, I would have never faulted you for it."

"It's not your disapproval I fear." Her smile is as tentative as it is warming. "It's Joffrey that worries me. His grandfather must have spent some time preaching to him too. He doesn't leave me in peace unless he's forced to." She closes in on herself, arms wrapped around her own body as if it'll be any good at keeping the world at bay. "It's not for lack of _trying_. The Grand Maester could as well go and grope at _him_ to find the reason for a change."

"It's only been three months. He's twenty years old." It would be advisable to keep his outrage to himself for now, for both their sakes, and luckily enough, he had become somewhat good at that. There had been only so many things that he could have seen and not said a word against before it became a second nature. "It's a little early to think that it's never going to happen, don't you think?"

"What I think is that he'll replace me if I don't give him a child soon. Or a promise of one, at least. And if he does, I don't know what he would do with _me_."

They both come to a halt as they reach the entrance to the Throne Room, but it's no use – it's where their ways part, just as their duties must for the rest of the day. Still, she lingers, and Jon can't quite force himself to move away.

"I would grow to love him, Mother always said. My husband, no matter who he ended up being. And if I didn't, I'd at least know him well enough to be happy. I would love his children, and warm to his family." She'd stopped looking at him, as if she's ashamed of the notion alone; as if she's ever had anything to hide from him. "No one ever told me that it could go so wrong. What if your husband hates you? What if his family keeps yours in line by holding you as a prisoner? What if there are no children to speak of?" She doesn't seem to expect a response; not when the answer evades her as well. "I should have never asked for any of this. It was a stupid dream and I was such a _child_, I should have never—"

"It doesn't matter now." The interruption is enough to sway her from yet another wave of self-deprecation. She had been rather prone to them lately, once the memories of every decision that had let them here would start to overwhelm her, and Jon had tried to contain it each and every time, as well as he could. It hadn't been their fault, in the end – mistakes or not, not a single one of the Starks had expected that they would end up _here_. Father had, perhaps, at the very end, and he had lost his head for it. Watching his sister risk the same fate for the sake of her despair isn't something he can allow, selfish as it might be. "You're not getting replaced. If you are, you might be safer for it. For the time being—"

"Your Grace?"

Sansa steps away hastily enough to nearly stumble over her skirts. It's yet another guard calling for her, if one from the City Watch this time, and his apologetic expression is enough to quell Jon's irritation for the time being. It's just as well – he has work to get back to, and so does his sister. Straying from her queenly duties for the sake of getting a shred of comfort had never been an acceptable option in court, he had found since the first days of her marriage.

"What is it?"

"The King was asking after you. You should have already joined him, he says." The man squirms in his place under her watchful eye. She hadn't meant to be quite so curt with him, Jon knows, and the sight of his fear of the royal family's anger makes her stance deflate a bit. It's either sympathy or the acceptance of her own fate – there's nowhere left to hide now. "The rest of the Small council already has."

"I wouldn't want to keep him waiting." Sansa watches the guard disappear back into the Throne Room with her best charitable smile, turning on her heel to cast him a final look. "Will you be on duty tonight?"

"No." For once, someone else will be roaming the castle at night. "If you need me—"

"I know." Another moment of hesitation and she nods, more to herself than to him. "I will."

For all the reassurance he'd tried to give her since their arrival, he thinks as he watches her straighten her shoulders and face the entrance again, none of it had quite matched up to _this_.

~.~

It's well into the night that Jon's peace is disturbed once more.

For appearances's sake – despite their personal quarters, there is little sense of personal space to speak of when it comes to the sworn brothers of the Kingsguard – he had gone to sleep, or at least, had made an effort at it. Sansa's promise had been enough to keep his hazy mind on edge and the knock on the door, when it comes, is more than enough to startle him into wakefulness once more and as Jon stumbles out of his bed and towards the door in the faint light of the candles, the thought of seeing her again, hopefully unscathed despite her anxieties and the continued presence of her husband, brings a smile to his face.

It dies a rather quick death as soon as he opens the door.

"Snow." Jaime Lannister shoulders his way past him and into the room before he can even think to return the half-hearted greeting and Jon blinks the sleep away from his eyes as best as he can. His Lord Commander has more control over his life than just about anyone else, the King himself likely included, but this is the sort of invasion of privacy that he hadn't quite seen coming. Had Sansa been here—

Not that she doesn't have the right to be, of course. Jon shoves the thought away. "Is something wrong?"

"Not _yet_." He pulls out the chair for Jon's desk; helps himself to a cup of wine. "It's about Stannis Baratheon."

"What of him?" The last they'd heard from the man, he had still been too busy squabbling over the hypothetical crown they would one day have with his younger brother. It had been repeatedly waved away as a threat for a later time during the Small council's meetings; he had seen it himself.

"Renly Baratheon is dead. He might have killed him, or— No one is sure of anything yet. Chances are, the majority of his men will flock to Stannis now. And once they do, he's going to turn his eyes on us. Sooner than we had hoped, I'm afraid."

_There is no **us**_, Jon would have insisted any other time, but it doesn't seem to matter now. "When did the message arrive?" Lannister's raised hand, a scroll clutched between his fingers, is all the answer he needs. "Who else knows?"

"The King, his Hand. My brother and sister as well."

"And what of _my_ sister?" What would he say? He'd promised her a way out and would bring her this instead. "Was she with the King when he found out?"

"No, she was in her chambers, asleep, or so I heard. I thought that you might want to be the one to tell her."

"I will." Of course. Who else? It would pain her all the more, coming from one of _them_. "I will, as soon as I see her tomorrow."

"You might not have to wait that long." His Lord Commander's long-suffering expression shifts into something unreadable and yet piercing enough to make Jon's stomach sink with a panic he hadn't known had lurked inside him. "She's just outside the door."


	4. Chapter 4

More than any other preparation that Sansa might have expected before a battle, the day had involved a whole lot of praying so far.

She's not quite sure what she's praying for or who she's addressing, if she's quite honest; not after every single ceremony that she'd been led through today. It doesn't particularly help that none of it had felt genuine. The news about Stannis's attack on the city had got out among King's Landing's population days ago and the King, along with his entire court, had had to set an example for the rest of them. During her limited time as the Queen, Sansa had picked up quite a few skills in that direction, but the pressure still feels far more immense than any faith she could have as she exits the Sept and allows herself to be escorted back to her litter. _Mind your every step_, Cersei had told her right before they'd left, in the process of yet another hasty lesson, _or they'll tear you apart for it once this is over_.

By now, Sansa knows what the good people of King's Landing are like when they're feeling particularly beastly. It's nothing like the sight that greets her now. The fearful silence reigning over the streets is enough to send a chill down her back and she should hate them, she knows – they had been nowhere near that quiet when her father had been standing on those very steps awaiting the King's dubious justice – but it's far too strong an emotion for her to manage amidst the storm raging inside her.

It's a curious thing, how much the borders of her world had narrowed by now. A million people between the walls of the city and there's just one life that she can muster the strength to care for.

"Don't look," Jon murmurs, leaning closer as he forces the crowd aside and pulls the curtains closed for her. He's still on horseback and it's as solid a barrier as she's going to get, and his tension manages to bleed into her all the same. Whatever it is that he's trying to shield her from must be yet another final straw and she has no intention of challenging him, but the anxiety written all over his features is worrying enough for her to reach out through the veil before he'd retreated. "Your _Grace_—"

He's as much of a prisoner as Sansa herself is, but the words still _sting_. It must be worse for him, in a way – even if it had all been a charade, she'd managed to find some small comfort in the prayers she'd learnt from her mother; in the wax dripping over her fingertips as she'd lit her candles and placed them at her gods's feet. Tonight, she'll be as safe as she can possibly be and, should the battle take a turn for the worst (though what that would consist of, she's not yet sure), the winner would be sure to spare her. With all the privileges her new title affords her, she'd be too valuable a prisoner to discard. Jon, on the other hand, had been surrounded by deities she knows he regards as nothing but indifferent spectators to a chaotic world. More than that, he'd be left to their mercy by nightfall once his ever-present duty to the King would prove more crucial than ever before.

It's an idea she'd been trying to come to terms with for days on end, as Stannis Baratheon's armies had slowly approached the city gates. It's just them now, a world away from anyone else they can trust, and the thought of the fragile peace they find in one another's presence being threatened is more difficult to bear than the threat to her own safety had ever been. She can't let it happen. She _can't_. The choice had been taken out of her hands when she should have been the most powerful woman in Westeros and if anything, that only serves to make it all the more infuriating. What use is power now? It's one thing to be kept away from her home and her blood, but putting _Jon_ on the front line is a different sort of insult and it cuts far deeper because he's right _here_. What use had it power ever had, if she can't keep this one man safe?

"If you'll excuse me, Your Grace," she hears him say from outside and the litter comes to a halt, followed by the sound of his boots hitting the stones on the street below. "The Queen needs assistance."

"Does she?" It's a small comfort that Joffrey had disappeared in the depths of the Red Keep at first light, doing whatever it is that he does to pretend he's getting ready, and had left her in his mother's care instead. Cersei's bored drawl continues a moment later. "Go ahead. We don't have long."

Sansa pushes the door open and Jon climbs in, their convoy proceeding immediately lest they're exposed to their subjects's curiosity once again. His presence is such an enormous relief that she doesn't think she'd have cared if they'd seen – the only thing that still exists is _this_, the little world between these four wooden doors, growing smaller by the hour.

"You'll be waiting out the battle in Maegor's Holdfast," he says and it's just decisive enough for her to know that any argument she'd been about to make will be rendered useless. "You, as well as all the women and children in the Red Keep. Ser Jaime's talked us all through it already; it's the safest place in King's Landing. Should the gate fall..." Whatever it is that the Lord Commander's discussed with the rest of the Kingsguard, it's apparently painted a grim enough picture for Jon to go quiet at the prospect. It's a strange thing – when she'd first opened her eyes this morning, Sansa hadn't been entirely sure what she'd want the outcome to be, provided that she and the rest of her family make it through the day and it occurs to her, rather suddenly, that it would make no difference to Stannis. There's no way they're not all usurpers to the man who'd killed his own brother for the Throne. "Should the gate fall, it's where you'll be safe the longest time. It won't be just us; there might be help coming, he says." Her brother's grip tightens on her hands, one thumb caressing over her wrist like he's trying to keep a frightened animal still before he delivers the fatal blow. "If that doesn't happen, they'll still keep you alive if they want the North to bend the knee. You'll be safe no matter what. I'll make sure of that."

"And what of the Kingsguard?" She has hear answer already, dreadful as it might be. She'd had it since the start. They would all be sent with the King, flocking around him before he'd have the chance to get as much as a taste of what battle is like. Sansa knows them all by names now; knows them well enough to know that each and every one of them, no matter how flawed, would be a bigger loss than her husband would be for his kingdom, but it's the inevitable truth of what Jon had signed his life away to. Still, it doesn't hurt to try. "No matter how safe we are, I doubt they'll leave Maegor's Holdfast with no guards at all."

"Of course not." The semblance of a smile that he offers her, pitiful as it is, is far worse than having him not soften the blow at all. "Your personal guard – or the Queen Mother's – will get that responsibility. The rest of us," the grimace widens; a tilted, tortured attempt at acceptance, "will follow the King into battle."

"Some leader you'll have." Saying that much is already treason, but Sansa is past the point of caring – for all she knows, she won't make it to tomorrow either way.

"I know." Jon lets go of her hands and the momentary loss of his warmth is worth it for the embrace that follows. It's something she's used to after all these weeks; something she would recognise him by even if she's deprived of every other sense, Sansa suspects. He's warm and all-encompassing and every inch of him reminds her of home. It's yet another bit of it that she'll have to give up, at least for a while, but for now, it's all she has. It has been for a long time now.

She'd been wrong, Sansa realises as she struggles to let go. Sometimes, it does hurt to try.

~.~

This night is never going to end.

Sansa's not sure when it first occurs to her, but once she'd noticed the terrible timelessness of it, it's an impossible thing to ignore. She'd already sang all the hymns she knows, had made the rounds among all the other ladies and tried to strike a conversation with each of them that had had the composure for it (and some that hadn't, to varying success); had endured several bouts of Cersei's attempts to relieve her own boredom, but they're yet to hear any news from the world outside their doors.

Here, she does pray. Part of it is due to her everlasting duty when it comes to keeping her subjects's spirits up during a profoundly difficult time, but it's far more honest than anything in the Great Sept of Baelor had been. Without the ritual and the audience and all the expectation that had thickened the air around her this morning, it's easier to reach out and put her few wishes into order for long enough to form a request. The gods owe her that much at least. They _must_. She'd been nothing if not exemplary, and all her prayers can fit in a few moments by now – _keep them safe, my mother and sister and brothers. Keep them alive._

The life she had wished for once would have helped better with passing the time – back before King's Landing, before the court's visit to Winterfell and everything it had brought with itself, she had wanted so much more. She'd wanted a prince and a crown and a life worthy of songs; she'd wanted a story that would outlive her by a thousand years. Her family's well-being had been a given, ridiculous as it looks in retrospect, and Sansa nearly laughs. If she were to look back, she would hardly recognise that girl now. She can't pinpoint the exact moment when she'd left her behind and had become the Queen instead – had it been Lady's death? Bran's fall? Her father's execution? It must have been all of it, in the end, all her losses piling up to put together the woman trying to hold half of the Red Keep together while the other half fights for their lives just outside the city gates. It would work the other way around, too, she supposes – if the person she'd been half a year ago were to meet her now, she wouldn't recognise her either.

By the time Cersei, prompted by yet another bit of information from her cousin that only she's privy to, abandons her to her own devices, Sansa already knows: if she wants to survive the rest of this, through victory or defeat, there's no one she can turn to. If the gods had heard her in the first place, they don't make themselves known and for the first time, she's starting to think that Jon had been right. Perhaps they're really only up there to watch them all stumble through yet another night.

~.~

In stark contrast to the strict, terrified order from before, the chaos that takes over the Red Keep as soon as the battle is over is almost overwhelming, but Sansa manages long enough to make her way out of Maegor's Holdfast and into the castle proper, gathering up her skirts so that she can quicken her pace towards the Throne room.

They'd won. That's all she knows now and where she'd felt uncertainty before, there's now resolve, solid and loud, making her heart flutter in relief just as she catches her first look at the stained white cloaks of the Kingsguard. Tywin Lannister is already there, commandeering everyone into compliance, but she doesn't _care_; doesn't care about Joffrey or his entire wretched family or the people watching her as she fails to follow the proper order for such a greeting. _They'd won_. It's not much in terms of safety – she hasn't felt safe since the moment her father had drawn his last breath – but it's enough to keep some of her unknown terrors at bay and for now, it's enough. It has to be.

"Your Grace," Ser Preston tries to keep her away from the Kingsguard's tightly-knit circle and Sansa nearly meets the bloodied gold of his armour face-first. It only takes a moment of his hesitation whether he dares to touch the Queen or not for her to shove past him and promptly get the air knocked from her lungs. "Your brother—"

She's on her knees before he can finish and he doesn't need to, really; she can see for herself just fine.

Jon had been laid on the floor by his brothers, head propped up on someone's bunched up gloves as he chokes on a gasp as soon as he sets his eyes on her. One of his hands is still pressed to his side, but it doesn't seem to help much – the blood still trickles through both the fabric and his fingers, hiding the wound itself from her view. It stains her fingertips too, once she reaches out and places her hand on his, and it's only then that he tenses, clearly preparing to speak.

"Don't," she warns him, but he doesn't listen. Of _course_ he doesn't, he never once has – he hadn't listened when she'd told him not to go, when she'd tried to draw him away from the preparation for the battle when Stannis Baratheon had still been an unimaginable distance away from them; he apparently hadn't even listened when she'd told him to leave Joffrey to his own devices, consequences be damned, should he end up in immediate danger. Why had she expected anything else?

"Sansa." He swallows heavily, eyelids fluttering as he tries to keep himself awake. "You— There was—" Another shuddering gasp. His lips curl into a smile, nothing like the warmth she's used to by now, but a reassurance all the same. "I'm here now."

"_Jon_." _So am I_, she wants to say, _I would have never left if it was up to me_. She doubts he needs to hear it as he'd been far too exasperated with her anxieties to take anything she'd said over the last week to heart, but even if he does, there's nothing she can say. For all anyone else knows, he'd done his duty to the King. Nothing else should have mattered; the fact that she had asked him anything else of him is treason enough.

"Your Grace." The knight's hand on her shoulder, far more decisive now, tries to draw her away as gently as possible, but she can't bring herself to move. There's so much blood. For a wild, breathless moment, it looks like more than their Lord father had spilled in his final moments. Jon isn't the only one and there's plenty of people hurt all around them – some of them, less fortunate than him, are probably still outside waiting for help to come – but all of it exists somewhere in the periphery of her mind, tucked away with the rest of a world that still fails to get her attention. Her prayers from before, on the other hand, resurface once again and this is all she can see; her brother's eyes on her, growing dimmer by the moment. And, as if on cue, "Ser Jon needs his rest. If you'll allow us..."

"Yes. Yes, of course." She gets to her feet, smoothing down the skirts of her dress in a desperate attempt to distract herself, only to send Jon's blood sliding down in rivulets over the fragile silk. It's only fair that they're both marked by it – she'd chosen that herself. "Do what you need to do."

~.~

It takes her nearly until noon on the next day to untangle herself from the many novelties that the battle had introduced her to – the way for her to properly greet her unfortunately untouched husband, the introduction to their newly acquired allies from Highgarden, yet another attentive stroll around the Red Keep to make sure that all her guests from the night before are in a sound state of mind – and once she does, she makes for the White Sword Tower before anyone had had the chance to stop her. The guard she encounters at Jon's door is an expected obstacle, if a rather ironic one. _Jon_ is the obstacle between her and the rest of the world, usually; seeing someone try and keep him away is strangely alarming.

"He's still unwell, Your Grace," the knight says, but Sansa knows them all well enough to know that he'll budge sooner rather than later. "The pain prevents him from resting properly and he's still refusing relief—"

"And he needs help." _Mind your every step_, she remembers and advances further, as much of a queen as she's ever going to get, _or they'll tear you apart_. "Isn't that right? I'd like to see him, if it's all the same to you."

It's not, but she gets her way, just as expected. If there's one perk to her position, it's that it had managed to open every door she'd tried to force herself through so far.

Whatever smugness she might have felt about that evaporates the moment she enters the room.

"Sansa?" Despite the sickly sheen of sweat glistening over his brow and twisting his hair into knots, Jon seems far more alert than he had been when she'd first seen him in the Throne room last night. There's that smile again, weak and yet brave enough to make her heart tighten painfully. "Ser Jaime said I should take the milk of the poppy or wave goodbye to any visitors." He collapses back against his pillows as she nears the bed. "Told him I didn't care. I didn't think they'd let you in here."

"I didn't either." It's no use apologising for how long it's taken her; he understands. He always does. Asking what had happened would be similarly futile – she knows she'll hear the story from someone else eventually even if he'd rather spare her the details. "Your man outside did say they had trouble getting you to sleep."

"_I'm_ having trouble getting me to sleep." His eyes dart towards her as if trying to gauge her reaction and Sansa keeps her features carefully neutral in response. Under the thick blanket that's been thrown over him, it's difficult to tell just how bad the wound is, but in the very least, he can move – one of his hands manoeuvres out from under the covers so that he can meet her halfway when she sits at the side of the bed and smoothes her hand over his. His grip is surprisingly firm given his predicament and Sansa cherishes it more than she ever thought she could. "But I'm not giving up."

She would have expected nothing less. "I know," Sansa says, her thumb drawing soothing circles over his wrist, relishing in the steady beating of his heart. It's the only sound in the world; just like back n the Throne room, all of reality seems to have folded into this one instant. "I'm here now."


	5. Chapter 5

The Tyrells might be the nicest Southerners that Jon had met so far. It's not much of an accomplishment, given the company he tends to keep in the Kingsguard, but it's still a surprise; how generous and whimsical and open to compromise they seem to be, considering the circumstances they'd been met with in the Red Keep.

There's no doubt that Olenna Tyrell would have made her granddaughter queen if she'd had any say in the matter. With nothing to do but silently observe every conversation and exchange in the castle, nearly as unremarkable as the stone walls behind him in the eyes of the highborn lords and ladies, Jon can see every push and pull that sometimes remains unnoticed by her interlocutors; every pattern that can only come to light if one observes each and every one of her interactions.

Finally, she turns to him as well.

"You're a new one, aren't you?" She doesn't seem to require an answer, but Jon makes to speak either way, only to be swiftly cut off. "Of course, there was a position left open once Barristan Selmy was sent away. Very convenient."

"His Grace King Robert was the one to make the invitation." He shouldn't talk back – it's one of the first lessons he'd ever learnt, both in King's Landing and in life before that – but it's impossible to resist. The implication that he's pleased with any part of this is too outrageous to ignore. "My sister—"

"Yes, yes, we all know about your sister," she dismisses him, mood even fouler than before, from what he can tell, and there's a perverse kind of satisfaction to be drawn from that. Sansa has suffered far too much from this marriage for him to be able to muster even one upside to it, but it has made so many people so angry that he can't help but love her all the more for it. His sister had taken it all with the quiet grace of a woman of her station and he's still in too much pain from the injuries he'd taken in the battle – in an effort to defend _her_, and her alone – to pretend to be a better person than he is_. If it makes us miserable, we might as well take everyone else down with us, too_. "Your sister and her undying love for His Grace the _new_ King." The woman gives him a smile unpleasant enough for Jon's insides to twist anxiously. "It's surprising, with that in mind, that she's yet to give him an heir."

She leaves the room before he'd thought of a response, but it's just as well – he doesn't have one either way.

He had watched her try and worm her way into the royal family for a good week or so now, to varying degrees of success, and the only remaining question had been whether she'd already chosen an opening for the opportunity; with two grandchildren fit to marry and Highgarden at her disposal, there could have been plenty of choices.

He has his answer now.

~.~

The news itch on his palate all day as he struggles through the rest of his shift, funnelling all of his efforts into remaining on his best behaviour. The white cloak on his back is expected to mean that he's part of something far more polished – far more _sophisticated_ – than a simple guard, but Jon doesn't particularly feel like it. He might as well be one more nameless, soundless armour pressed against the castle walls, sinking into the shadows until the royal family can safely forget that he exists and it's only when the night falls and his watch ends in favour of another one of his brothers taking his place that he allows his shoulders to sag; his helmet to come off as he heads for the white tower and the sight that he knows awaits him there.

Sansa had, to his immense relief and thorough lack of surprise, been a nigh-constant presence in his chambers ever since the battle. It's not difficult to imagine how frightened she must have been to see the only member of her family that she has here bleeding out in the aftermath of someone else's war and she had been the only one to remain by his side after the Grand Maester had proclaimed him fit for duty (or able to get up from his bed, in any case; King Joffrey doesn't seem to understand the difference between the two). She would remove the bandages as carefully as possible each evening, applying any and every cure onto the still-healing wound before fishing new cloth to wrap it up in out of the bag of supplies he doesn't dare to ask how she'd acquired, and tells him about her day without him having to ask her to fill the silence. It's the only kind of rest he knows now – hearing the news from the other side is fascinating when it's coming from her and there's no better source of information than the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

He's just about to breach the topic of his meeting with the Tyrell matriarch when she beats him to it.

"There are the Tyrells too, of course. Their father is— bearable. He talks too much during Small Council meetings in an effort to please Tywin Lannister, but everyone else does that too, so I'm not holding it against him." Jon huffs out a laugh, trying not to strain his abdomen too much. Even talking is sometimes painful when he's receiving treatment, but he can't find it in himself to complain – Sansa's voice is more soothing that any other relief he'd been offered had managed to be. "Ser Loras is doing his absolute best to sweet-talk his way into the Kingsguard before someone manages to find him a wife. Lady Margaery has been nothing but kind to me." His sister falters, fingers carefully tying the bandage around his torso to keep the pomades she'd brought in from smearing onto his bed covers. "She seems to listen to her grandmother a lot; it shows in the way she speaks. She's set to marry Tommen even if no one's said it outright yet and she's not pleased. I wouldn't be either," she reasons when Jon frowns, though he hadn't meant to object – the youngest heir to the Iron Throne is nearly a man himself by now, but too sheltered to show for it. "He's a child. It's just that, the things she says—"

She finally abandons the pretence of being busy once she's done with her work and Jon carefully tries to rise onto his elbows, alarmed. It's the little movements that hurt far more than standing upright for the better part of a day, but he bites back a wince at the sight of the tears welling up in Sansa's eyes. His hand curls around her elbow, keeping her close even as he sees her draw back within her own space once again, clearly too proud to speak. It's a ridiculous notion by now – she should know he wouldn't hold her accountable regardless of the accusation hurtled at her this time. "What was it?"

"I'm sure it's nothing." It's not, if anything about his sister is to go by, and he waits quietly until her resolve crumbles and the confessions start slipping out. "There's been _talk_, apparently, of whether I can provide the king with an heir or not. The wedding had been a wonderful distraction, Olenna Tyrell thinks, but it's not going to hold forever, especially after Stannis was at our doors so recently. Soon, the people might need another royal celebration to observe to hold them over through the war as it gets worse, and what makes for a better celebration than a prince or a princess? Joffrey hasn't heard about _that_ side of our problem yet – not from anyone but his grandfather, who has been ever so kind to remind us of the necessity of a heir whenever he sees fit – but he's been getting frustrated too. The battle distracted him for a while, but it's not enough and if everyone in court keeps implying that I'm— _incapable_, they'll find him a new bride soon enough. There was no one better until now – he wants to keep the North in place if he can, but he's not above trying to convince his Small Council to sacrifice it – and us – if it means reaping results sooner elsewhere. And the trouble is, I don't think he _will_. I've been so careful and everything is in order, Pycelle says, but no one is ever going to tell him that the issue could lie with him. And if I don't do something quickly, he won't wait long to start anew."

It's a conversation they'd had before – and quite recently, too – and it had felt nowhere near as urgent back then. Sansa had been troubled in that day, but she seems terrified now. There's nothing she can do, really, quickly or not, and he's not unkind enough to point that out when she's clearly distressed, but, "There's always a way out."

The smile she responds with is as joyless as the rest of her and it's unbearable to see her like this; defeated in a way she never has been, no matter how hopeless their circumstances had become. He remembers, not for the first time, the promise he'd made to their father days before his death. There's a reason he hadn't gone north and towards the Wall; there's a reason he'd been coaxed into a nearly foreign land with the same vows he would have made in the Night's Watch and thrice the danger. It had all been for her. How useful could he possibly be if he can't fix the worst obstacle she's faced so far; the kind that could easily end with their heads on spikes right beside the rest of their household that had dared to come into the city?

"From what I can see," Sansa says, too sardonic for comfort, "I have two options. Run – and get caught as soon as we reach the city gates – or find my husband a child. Neither seems particularly achievable."

_As soon as **we** reach the city gates_. She knows that it's both of them or no one, at least; that way, it'll be much easier to drag her out of the hopelessness that had started to plague her all those months ago.

"We can't run," he admits, rendered helpless from the truth of it. It would be the best possible way out, no doubt about it, and he has imagined it more times than he can count, but they'd never manage to outrun their captors. The last thing that the realm needs is descent into even further chaos and Jon is nowhere near selfish enough to be the one to cause it, no matter how much it costs him. Sansa nods, the tears falling freely now, and leans down until she's curled in the crook of his shoulder once again. Few things in the world have ever felt as comforting as her embrace and the way she fits in his arms and, pain or not, Jon strains up to press a kiss against her temple. _If we run now, we'll never see our family again._ "But you _can_ have a child. It doesn't need to be Joffrey's if he can't manage one."

"Then _who_?" She sounds so incredulous that it makes him second-guess himself for a moment, unsure if he should ever go that far. She had shown him nothing but love since they had arrived and they had grown more faith in each other than either had had in anyone else before, but this is still unthinkable. It should be, in any case; for them, at least. It's the worst thing he had ever thought of, something he would have never subjected anyone else to after the life he had led so far, but there's so little else to do. Their father's voice echoes in his mind again, frantic with worry despite the fact that he'd still had a sliver of faith back then. _Promise me, Jon. Whatever happens to the rest of us, I might not manage to get the two of you out. Promise me you'll keep her safe. _"Who do you think I should subject— who would be brave enough— no one would keep a secret like that. No one would dare. No one would want—"

She doesn't have to say it for him to know. _No one would want to father a bastard._ Not if they have a choice.

He doesn't have a choice. Jon captures her hand as it's fiddling with the edge of his white cloak where it hangs by the bed and doesn't let go.

"I would."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes: Fair warning: There's smut in this.**

When Jon had first made the offer, Sansa had assumed that it had been the fever talking.

He'd been entirely lucid from the moment she'd first seen him after the battle and up to last night, when he'd proposed a solution to their crisis, but it's never too late for the pain to muddle one's mind for all she knows, because there's no way – no _way_ – he had said what she'd thought he'd said.

It had felt like a much better alternative when compared to actually considering it, at first, but then—

Then she'd started to _wonder_.

There's no way out of here for them, truly. Not right now, in any case, and not until Joffrey had been pacified through whatever manner she'd find easiest to pursue. It's quite a length to go for pacification, all things considered, but she doesn't have much of a choice to begin with. The entirety of what little freedom she has is held in ideas such as Jon's – if she's to be trapped here, she might as well make a choice for herself.

It's a poisonous sort of hesitation; once it had taken root, there had been no getting rid of it. She should have refused him right away, told him that he'd offered her something their own father had fought to reveal in another, just as noble and powerful, family, and what service would their treason do to the North?

And still, their father is long dead. His killers – the very family Sansa wishes to keep peace with – are still here, having successfully snuffed out the only flame of doubt over the course of twenty years. Being better than them hadn't kept Ned Stark alive, but lowering themselves to the same level might just be able to save _them_.

It's a revelation like no other. There's still no way out, but life is better than nothing; Sansa had figured out that much in the limited time she'd had to think. At first, it hadn't seemed so. She had been able to think of nothing but the approaching war and her brothers in danger; of Arya missing and Father's blood dripping from the edge of a blade; of Jon's helpless eyes as he'd handed her over to Joffrey. Death had been a tempting solution back then, but things had changed after the battle. Seeing her brother tighten his grip on life all the more stubbornly in order to keep himself afloat for her sake had set something alight inside her, a resolve sparking to life despite her best efforts to keep her head low.

It's the same emotion that keeps buzzing under her skin now as she does her best to endure the work she needs to do through the day. She'll need to join her husband in their joint chambers first, of course, but as soon as they'd gone through their nightly effort to do what custom demands of them, Joffrey's grip getting tighter by the night as Sansa fails to deliver anything but another disappointment. She'd learnt to detach herself from his rage quite a while ago, but it still _hurts_ more than she would ever want to admit; having to retract somewhere deep within her own mind in order to escape a fate that should have never fallen on her to begin with.

She should have _guessed_, Sansa thinks for what has to be the thousandth time. When she had talked about her future with every woman she had known as a child, all older and wiser and far more experienced than she had been, there had been a lot of talk about love, but a fair bit about having to bite your tongue and take things as they are, too. She'd bitten it bloody in the time since her wedding, her tongue and her wrists and lips as she'd tried to stifle her cries until she'd feared that sooner rather than later, there would be no blood left to trickle out of her mouth by morning.

She wouldn't spill a drop more for him if she could help it. Now, it would appear, she can.

_We would have to be careful_, she had told Jon again and again while they'd considered it, but when she finally finds the moment for it, it all turns out to be surprisingly easy. She's familiar with her brother's every move; knows when he's guarding the royal family, regardless if it's day or night, can feel his eyes on the back of her neck on the rare occasions when they're allowed to be in the same room. It's so _easy_ to figure out that he should be in his chambers and that the White Tower should be nearly deserted. The Kingsguard can't afford to guard their own, so they're either elsewhere in the castle or asleep – or, in the case of the guard in front of her and Joffrey's apartments, both. If His Grace had been awake, he would have the man's head for his transgression, but he _isn't_. Sansa had checked several times before she'd dared to dart outside and the bravery that shoots through her reminds her of the first time she'd been made to try wine – bitter and heavy and inevitable on her tongue, leaving her dizzy and open.

By the time she shuts the door of Jon's sleeping quarters behind her back, some of that resolution has swiftly evaporated, but she hangs onto the remnants of it desperately – right about now, they'd both need as much courage as they can possibly stomach.

"Sansa?"

"It's me." It all reminds her, just a little, of the night after the battle of Blackwater Bay – her brother blinks rapidly against her in an effort to chase the sleep away from his eyes, sitting up before she'd got even halfway through the room. "Who else is here?"

"Swann, I think. He's all the way on the other end of the corridor," he adds at Sansa's alarmed expression. "Oakheart and Lannister are on both sides of this room, but they're both on duty tonight."

"Good." Sansa gathers her skirts in one hand and sits herself on the edge of his bed, watching as his eyes widen with something too close to anticipation to be anything else. "We'll need to be _very_ quiet."

She watches Jon gulp and then nod. There's no trepidation behind it and she's quietly grateful – _that makes one of us_. "It's a _yes_, then."

"It is. I'm sorry," she says before she can stop herself. It's a ridiculous thing to feel: he had been the one to offer and he had known – had to have know – what his plan would entail, but she feels no better than any king who had come before; using another to save her own skin. "Jon, I never meant for any of this—"

"It's all right." He takes her hand in both of his own, pulling her closer, as close as she can get without climbing over him. "I know."

He does bring her entirely on top of the bed this time and swiftly swaps their positions, effectively trapping her between his own body and the bed, the glint of determination in his dark eyes sending an entirely unexpected thrill down her back.

It feels strange to want and even stranger to be wanted, Sansa discovers distantly as her brother hovers over her, clearly unsure on what to start with. She'd had a _plan_ in mind. This is a way out and nothing more and they're doing what they must. The sooner this ends, the better, so that they can return to their respective lives and hope for the best. It's not something for them to enjoy or, Gods forbid, have fun with. It should have been a difficult decision to make for an endless list of reasons and she should have found it all too repulsive to look him in the eye with the knowledge that Jon would feel the exact same way.

The strangest thing of all, Sansa finds, is to want and be wanted when you know you shouldn't.

"Jon." She sounds strangely brittle as she watches him dutifully pull her the little clothing she still has over her head and then make his descend down his body when he'd had his moment of assessment; unsure in a way she hasn't been in quite a while when it comes to him. He's the only solid thing in her life and this – not knowing what to do and say and _feel_ – pains her more than she'd ever seen coming. "I thought you would—"

"I will," he says, so self-assured that she finds it in herself to relax back against the pillow and fix her gaze decisively on the ceiling instead of him. It turns out to be a mistake – in the half-light that the candles throws around the room, their shadows are elongated, separate beings and she can drift away, sinking into the feeling of Jon's warm hands over her bare skin with more ease than will ever be acceptable. "I want this to feel good for once."

It shouldn't, Sansa knows. If she lets them both enjoy this, it will turn into something far beyond her control; something that no longer stems from duty and survival.

"Please," she hers herself say, as if from a distance. It's not the same stubbornness that fuels her certainty to detach from herself even when Joffrey hurts her worse for it. If anything, it's the opposite she fears – if she looks down, she'll see something far worse than the monster that had clawed his way through her life, tearing every bit of it to shreds. Instead, it'll be someone familiar, someone loved, someone so painfully far away that she would never be allowed to give herself over to him completely. "You don't have to draw this out."

"I know I don't. I want to. It's still a long time until first light, and by then, I'll make sure to have you back in your chambers for your handmaidens to see." His voice is a welcome distraction from how awfully exposed she feels when he trails a hand down her bare thigh. She's sure he's seen her out of her gowns before – as children, they had all spent far too much time wandering by the sides of the hot streams around Winterfell – but this is different. Heavier, somehow, in a way she hadn't seen coming, Jon's touch tracing a line of fire over her skin. "Let me do this properly."

"Kiss me, then."

It's a bold request – none of this means anything, it couldn't possibly – and she can see him hesitate. It's a boundary he hadn't been prepared to break and it would have been almost funny, given the intimacy of their position, but Sansa isn't feeling particularly amused.

Jon had never been one to back away from a challenge. "All right."

Instead of lowering himself back to the bed, he wraps an arm around her waist and brings her to his level and Sansa hastily closes her eyes lest she intimidates him into changing his mind. It's unclear whether it'd had the desired effect or not, with how careful Jon is with her in everything else as well, but finally, she can feel the tentative press of his lips against hers, his tongue darting over her mouth until she grants him entrance.

He's nothing like Joffrey. She had known that from the start – there's a reason she's here and not in her marriage bed – but the differences are still startling enough to leave her breathless for a moment. Jon engulfs her entirely, one of his hands cupping the back of her head so that he can fit them better together and she could easily let herself get lost in this, Sansa thinks, all of her troubles melting away in the warmth that he provides. It's nothing but a kiss, but it feels like much more; like the fire she stokes in her room in some of Winterfell's colder nights, like sun scorching her skin in the summer, like _Jon_, his arms wrapped around her to keep her whole whenever she needs it the most.

Sansa wrestles him out of his nightclothes when he breaks away and has all of a moment to take him in – his pale skin in the muted golden light, his still-healing wounds from the battle – before he's back on his knees at her feet, gaze heated. It makes her want to never turn away; if someone had looked at her like this before, it pales to the urgency in his eyes and she could live off of this for the rest of her life.

She's so _wet_. It's a mortifying realisation, but Jon is there – he always is – making it better, making it _good_. He lowers his head between her legs where she'd spread them to accommodate him better and a moment later, his hot tongue last at something unfairly sensitive and she arches her back and presses the palm of her hand against her own month to keep quiet, breath leaving her in a gasp right as her lover chances another look at her. His mouth moves upward and only an instant later, she realises why – he'd been making space for his fingers, pushing inside her with no warning whatsoever as if he had assumed he hadn't done enough so far. It's a good thing that for once, she doesn't _need_ to be warned – she wants this too much for her body to try and resist.

"Jon, that's enough." A whimper breaks free through her self-imposed gag when he doesn't let up, fingers pressing down insistently against a part of her that makes her squirm. Her free hand curls into a fist in his hair, bringing him closer even as she begs through the increasingly frequent bursts of bliss washing through her, "Jon, please, I can't—"

"It's all right," he murmurs and his voice against her heat makes her climb ever closer towards some unnamed peak that she'd never thought existed before. "You can. I'm right here, Sansa."

It's this – her name on his lips, the ever-present reassurance that they're together in this as they are in everything else, the hunger he still seemingly hadn't managed t quench – that finally proves to be too much.

"_Jon_!" She tries to keep quiet, she really does, but there's nothing she can _do_. It's as if her body doesn't belong to her all of a sudden, preferring instead to take the reins on its own and it's as if she's way above the ground, lifting her higher still until the wave of pleasure that she'd felt building finally crashes into her, robbing her of her breath once again. It passes through her in tremors, each as unexpected as the last, and the _sounds_ she makes – wounded and repetitive and a touch incredulous – might as well have been coming from a world away, judging by the buzzing in her ears.

She can feel Jon shifting in the bed until they're face to face again and he's unnervingly composed for someone who had just unceremoniously ripped the floor from under her feet, so Sansa meets him halfway for another kiss, slow and unhurried. It should disgust her, she supposed, her own taste on his tongue, but it doesn't feel disgusting no matter how hard she tries. She gives up soon enough, encouraged by his apparent nonchalance from before – if they have to do this, they might as well do what they can to enjoy it.

Jon's breathing is shaky and shallow, but he's as hard as he can get and she does her best not to tense as she crawls back over her. She's not bracing herself for the inevitable this time and he understands – his smile is warm and reassuring when he leans in to kiss her again just as he slides in with one abrupt stroke, and Sansa is home.

~.~

It's disappointing; waking up alone the next morning. Ever since they'd arrived in King's Landing, Sansa had lived for the few nights of solitude she'd been allowed, creeping away into her own rooms whenever possible or acceptable, only to now feel the distinct lack of companionship as her handmaiden gently brought her back to wakefulness.

She would have much preferred to remain the White Tower, surrounded by her brother's presence and warmth and comfort, but she'd left as soon as she'd felt ready to get up, aware of the consequences that her presence there could bring upon both of them. They'd said their goodbyes and she had taken her leave, both hopeful and terrified.

Nothing had changed, of course; not on a surface level, at least. There's no guarantee that his seed had taken root just yet, but the action itself is enough to make her giddy with the bravery she had never expected to show; so giddy that getting through the day is, for the first time in months, almost enjoyable. Joffrey's endless whinging, his mother's sneered commands, Tywin Lannister's nagging, Olenna Tyrell's efforts to bait her into any reaction she can, all feel insignificant and distant, as if she'd temporarily pushed them onto someone else.

By night, though her mood has soured somewhat by Joffrey's presence, Sansa readies herself for another feat of last night's scale. The Grand Maester had taken the time to explain more about her fertility and the way it should work than anyone else before him, given the pressure on her to make use of said fertility as soon as she can, and she doesn't intend on missing whatever chances she's presented with. It's exhausting, half of her strength being put into efforts she knows from experience will be futile, but it's going to be worth it in the long run; that much she's sure of. She hadn't had the opportunity to speak to Jon at all today, but she has little doubt that he'll be of the same opinion. The plan has been his to start with, after all.

It's that exact certainty that makes her steel herself for another escape, but as soon as she approaches her chambers, all the scheming she'd put time in today falls apart, much to her delight.

"Your Grace." Even with the stony expression so carefully trained into every member of the Kingsguard etched onto his features, it's easy to see the same feeling echoed back from her brother's eyes.

"Ser Jon," she acknowledges, breezing right past him and into her chambers, her smile hidden away in the darkness inside as she hears him follow her a breath behind.


	7. Chapter 7

_Robb,_

_I hope my raven finds you well. I heard about the commotion on the Iron Islands and Theon's unfortunate decision to join in his father's rebellion, but I couldn't be more grateful that you, at least, are safe._

She had just began piling her news on what had to be the tenth scroll in a row – meticulous and so, so careful with every word, given the knowledge that it would likely go through the entirely of the royal family before ever ending up in her brother's hands – by the time the pain had started.

It had happened so suddenly that Sansa had hardly believed it. Every woman in court who had birthed a child, from the Queen Mother to the lowest servant, had felt the need to let her know what the process would be like, but she had still been left unprepared, the quill falling from her fingers as she'd bent over to clutch at her stomach. The news can wait – as it appears, she would need a much longer parchment by the time she would get back to it – but...

But it's terrifying; the thought that the baby – _her_ baby, the one she'd fought for so fiercely and yet so quietly – is just about ready to leave her. She had had months on end to prepare for it, but the fierce protectiveness that had blossomed alongside the life inside her is not comforted by that in the slightest; even less so when she gets to her feet once the first onslaught passes and heads for the door, desperate for assistance. The moment had been prepared for, but the birth itself? She would have never been ready. Sansa had known it from the start.

_I'm happy to say that Jon and I have been treated marvellously ever since the wedding; I'm sure he's already written you as much. He was very brave during the siege, as was the rest of the court. All the Seven must have been watching over us that night. We are lucky to be here._

"It's all right," she assures as the girl helping her down the corridor – younger than her, nearly a child, frantic and eager to help – rains down excuses on the King's behalf upon her. A meeting of the Small Council had been called a few hours back and he had been away ever since and it had been urgent, and, "Summon my brother, if he isn't with the King."

"Your Grace?" The servant sounds equal parts confused and unsettled and Sansa pushes past the exhaustion, past the frustrating helplessness, past the desperate urge to keep the life inside her safe while keeping herself afloat as well. There is a chamber prepared specifically for her and she has the best midwives she can ask for and everything is going to be _just fine_ if she can only issue this one order.

"Ser Jon," she grits through her teeth, another sharp flash of pain spearing through her. It's easy, she supposes, to think that she might be out of it enough to believe that the rest of her family is here, too blinded by the pain to remember her circumstances. She's not. It's nearly a year to the day since they had arrived in King's Landing and Sansa has yet to spend a single moment without complete awareness of every painful detail of her life. "Ser Jon of the Kingsguard, my brother."

The girl nods, understanding finally dawning. "At once, Your Grace."

_I am lucky to be writing this._

~.~

Somewhere in the process of drawing in careful, pained breaths and stifling the impulse to scream her lungs out, Sansa notices, her midwife had gone from _be strong, Your Grace_ to _come on, dear girl, just a little more_. She can't really find it in herself to complain. Her mother isn't here to help her through it and neither is the _Queen_ Mother, for that matter. She's alone in every way that counts and this encouragement, inappropriate as it might be, is all she has. _Breathe. Just a little more..._

It had been _just a little more_ for what has to be half a day by now. Had she not waited enough? She had watched the life inside her grow more and more with each passing day, as elated as she'd been afraid that something – anything, everything – could go wrong, and for all those months, this one reassurance had been everything she'd had_. Just a little more_. Just a little more patience, discomfort, pain, worry; just a little more of Joffrey's endless, thinly veiled threats of further abuse should she fail to provide him with an heir to the Throne.

At first, the thought of whether she'd prefer a boy or a girl hadn't as much as occurred to her to her. She'd wanted the baby to be safe and healthy and _Jon_'s; she'd had two names in mind and two sets of clothes for the child she had dreamt of from the moment the idea had been first introduced to her, years and years ago. She had wanted it all easy and beautiful and uncomplicated and such details had felt entirely irrelevant. What would it matter? She and her husband would love each very much and have as many heirs as they could. She could have all the little lords and ladies (princes and princesses, she'd amended the day she'd met Joffrey for the first time) her heart had always desired.

Like everything else in King's Landing, that image had been soured rather quickly, too.

_A boy, please_, she prays, begs, to gods she doubts are listening. If she could just give Joffrey his prince, some time would pass before he'd think to hassle her for another heir, or so she'd started hoping. _Please, please, give me a boy_.

She's not quite sure about the gods, but someone, at least, must be listening, because the door to her temporary chamber slams open, Jon bursting through and kneeling my her side, breathing laboured in his full suit of armour.

"I came as soon as they'd let me," he says and Sansa has already latched onto his offered hand by the time she'd managed a nod of acceptance. "You're doing wonderfully."

"You don't know how I'm doing." _Breathe. Breathe. Push_. A bead of sweat trickles down from her forehead and Jon wipes her eyes clean – from sweat and tears and pain and the distinct, sinking feeling that no one can tell how long this will go on for. "I could still have _days_ to go—"

"You don't. Of course you don't." Her grip on him must be painful by now, but Jon doesn't flinch; stares her right in the eyes until she gets lost in the darkness of his. "Hold on to me, Sansa. Just hold on."

_To answer what I'm sure is your most pressing question, it's true – the King and I are expecting our first child to be born any day now. The Grand Maester has been wary about giving me a more exact estimate, but – as I'm sure you would expect – I'm beyond thrilled already._

By the time she hears the first cry, sharp and piercing and _breathtaking_, Sansa is halfway convinced that she couldn't possibly make it through this.

And yet, it's over – there are overjoyed cries and cooing all around her, awed as if they haven't been helping ladies through this for years on end, and she sinks back into her pillows, relieved and ecstatic and hollow in too many ways to count.

"Give me—" She feels both drained and full of life; full of possibilities. "Give me the baby."

"He's _beautiful_." The midwife finally remembers herself and places her child – her _son_ – into her arms. Sansa forces her eyes open to look at him, beaming. "He has the King's eyes, Your Grace."

He doesn't. Sansa is sure of it before she looks, but it's a relief all the same; meeting her baby's gaze for the first time and seeing a burst of more colours than she'd ever imagined than the watery Lannister green she's so used to.

It's like a sudden burst of light; blue and green and brown and a hint of gold, unlike anything she's ever seen before. His hair – what little of it he does have – is an unruly mess of bright red, just like her own. The curls are all Jon, but it's all right – it's a trait the Starks are known for. It's all she'd wanted and it's _still_ inconspicuous enough for her to be sure that they're all safe.

It's her brother she turns to when she makes her announcement.

"Rickard." It's the name she'd had in the back of her mind from the very beginning; it's thrilling to see how perfectly it suits him. "His name is Rickard."

_I spend a lot of time inside, now, as my time approaches, and it has left me with plenty of time to think about it all. Our family, our home, our new one here in King's Landing._

_The thought of family never quite leaves me, really._

"He looks far more like you," Sansa says one day, Rickard pressed against her chest while Jon's arms sneak around her waist. She had been given the option to hand him over to a wet nurse, of course, but refusing had seemed like the only sensible conclusion – she would rarely see so much of him once he's old enough for the Court's flock of tutors and lecturers and officials. Better take what little she's been offered.

Jon scoffs behind her, lips pressing against her neck. It's a casual gesture by now, simple and affectionate and indulgent. They only have each other, after all; why shy away from any of it now? He's her port in the storm and it had started out the same way for him, she's sure.

It hadn't ended there.

It couldn't have – Sansa can remember each and every one of the times they'd sought each other out and the moment she'd realised that it had all gone far past duty. There had been no purpose to their frantic fumbling in the dark once his seed had taken root, but they'd gone on regardless, too wrapped up in the bliss of it to try and bother with looking for an excuse.

"He's amazing," Jon says, full of love and warmth and very little agreement. "But he's a baby. We don't even know where his eyes come from."

"Your mother, perhaps." It's a sore topic, usually, but her brother only shrugs.

"Perhaps. No way for us – or anyone else – to find out. You shouldn't worry." Another kiss, lower this time, towards the curve of her shoulder. "Babies don't look much like anyone at all."

Babies, as Sansa well knows, don't stay babies forever.

_My royal husband has been most accommodating to my condition. Had Mother been here, she would have been most pleased with the way I've been treated, I'm sure. I wish she had managed to come. Perhaps I could come to you myself, one day._

Joffrey pays her little mind, most of the time. It's just as well – as difficult a demand as it's going to be in the long run, Sansa wants him nowhere near her child – but it's put her in a state of near-calm that's as comforting as it's dangerous.

"—wait for him to come of age, at least," she hears her mother by law say as soon as she slips into the Small Council meeting – what has to be the fifth one this week, though the Seven Kingdoms have been unusually quiet, save for the Iron Islands's mostly ineffectual rebellion. "We've fed them enough, I think, in every sense of the word."

The only response she gets from her father is a sigh. His usual air of condescension and exasperation is nowhere near its full force today, but it's enough for unease to settle low in Sansa's stomach as she takes her place by the table. If it's her son they're discussing—

"We haven't fed the Olenna Tyrell enough, however, or this wouldn't be an issue. I can offer you to her grandson, if the thought is more palatable for you." It isn't, if Cersei's sour expression is anything to go by. "The least we can offer them is an immediate union. A permanent home for Tommen's bride at Casterly Rock too, likely. The offer we're making isn't quite what they were expecting, after all."

"We can't give Casterly Rock to the Tyrells." Jaime Lannister – not particularly talkative during Small Council meetings even on his best days – straightens up, scandal written all over his face. There's an uncomfortable silence as he eyes both his siblings, their expressions mirroring his, before turning to the King's Hand once again. "Our family's legacy—"

"You gave up on that legacy quite a while ago, as you'll recall." The reminder is cutting enough for his son to sink back into his seat. "Even if it had been otherwise, this should not concern you. A wife, no matter how highborn, cannot take over an entire kingdom." When he wrenches himself from his family to pin her down pointedly with his glare, Sansa refuses to look away. "If you are not interested in compromise, however, there are other propositions to be made."

"Such as?" Cersei's distaste for the Tyrells is a well-known part of court life at this point, and for perhaps the first time, Sansa can see it all through her eyes. Tommen is hardly more than a child. She thinks of giving Rickard away – thinks of the way his little face scrunches up in displeasure whenever he's about to start crying – and barely suppresses a shudder.

"Such as a visit to their homeland. It'll do the reach some good to see their prince up close. We took similar measures with Joffrey, as you well know."

"And we went home, to Casterly Rock." Tywin's eyebrows raise almost to his hairline at the supposed course of his daughter's thinking, but it's a passing surprise – he'd been wrong, apparently, as had Sansa. She's not suggesting they parade the newborn member of the royal family through the Stormlands. "Why not visit Winterfell?"

"No." If he's as puzzled as Sansa is, it doesn't show. _Why Winterfell, of all places?_ She and Joffrey had killed the North's Warden and had sowed war across the realm; what kind of welcome could they hope for, even out of fear? "It's too prolonged and too expensive. As much as I'm sure the Queen would love to see her family again, I've got something else in mind."

Sansa does look away this time, desperate to avoid their silent, imploring gazes.

Cersei doesn't let up. "It's a precious thing for a new bride to ask for the help of her own mother and a terrible loss to lack it." She doesn't turn away from her father, but Sansa can feel Lord Tyrion tense in his seat all the same. "We should not deprive Sansa—"

Whatever it is that she shouldn't be deprived of, she doesn't get to hear, the buzzing in her ears becoming too great to ignore. She would have loved having her mother by her side, of course; would have loved her there since the very start. She would never have to resort to asking servants or wet nurses or Cersei herself, even, for any advice if she were to just go home.

She dreams it up for all of an instant – Winterfell with its startling warmth on every cold, endless night the North could ever put them through; Robb and his lady who, according to what he'd shared, he had met in his war camp before he'd retreated; Bran, now awake, and Rickon and their still-growing Direwolves. It would be soured, doubtlessly, by the Lannisters's presence, but there's always Rickard and Jon to keep her company through the journey.

_Jon and Rickard..._

She thinks of her mother looking down at her grandson and seeing the face that she'd resented despite herself for what it had represented these years; thinks of shame and guilt and betrayal, betrayal most of all.

The dream shatters.

"Lord Lannister is right, Your Grace." Her voice is too shaky and fragile to bear, but she soldiers on. "It's not worth the effort."

_As is, a response will have to suffice for now._

_All my love,_

_Sansa_


End file.
